


What a wicked game we play (but roses will bloom)

by TheonlyDan



Series: Crash and burn (so we never learn) [2]
Category: Nightwish, Real Person Fiction, Sharja, Within Temptation (Band)
Genre: Eventual Fluff, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Masturbation, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25166605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheonlyDan/pseuds/TheonlyDan
Summary: A flower was nature’s gift. A picker was the unstoppable force. In that case, Sharon would be Tarja's femme fatale.orA prequel and sequel of Covered by roses (with deadwood inside).
Relationships: Sharon den Adel/Robert Westerholt, Sharon den Adel/Tarja Turunen, Tarja Turunen/Marcelo Cabuli
Series: Crash and burn (so we never learn) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823182
Kudos: 2





	What a wicked game we play (but roses will bloom)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction borrowing online resources of Within Temptation, My Indigo, and Tarja Turunen. Most of the events in my work did NOT happen, only the searchable, official ones such as the dates and places of the concerts.  
> I do not own any of the mentioned musicians' creations.

July 9th, 2016, thirty-thousand feet off the ground

On the flight to Poland, Tarja thought that The Brightest Summer Tour should now officially be renamed as: The Sharon-constantly-on-her-fucking-mind Tour.

Also, busying oneself to forget was total bullshit.

She was never good at dealing with emotional stuff even if she was an emotional person. After that Heineken night with the Dutch, Tarja was avoiding any contact with her. She told herself she should let it go but she couldn’t. She was not cruel enough. That was who Tarja was. She was addicted to a certain kind of sadness, actually _wanting_ to get caught up in problems impossible to be solved. Look at her Nightwish days. That would explain plenty.

I think this is the first time I see you without any makeup.

_Yeah…I guess so. And do you like what you see, so far?_

C’mon. You know you are one of my favorite persons in the world.

Tarja was an open, honest person, and she knew herself pretty well, that her heart has teeth so she wasn’t afraid to wear it on her sleeve. She was quite easy to understand, really. People stayed away because of her aloofness. They sensed distance because Tarja had given and shown too much to the world. _If you give first, then maybe no one would take._ Those people saw the prelude of a storm, and it was what Tarja wanted to be seen as—a wild, romantic rose that was located in the epicenter of stormy, thorny vines.

A flower was nature’s gift. A picker was the unstoppable force. In that case, Sharon would be her femme fatale.

_Are you leaving?_

No, I’m not.

Tarja shut her eyes to block the memory, and suppressed the urge to rub about the ridge of her nose and temples. She knew the ache wasn’t originated from the lack of caffeine intake, but from the heart. Marcelo shut the blinds for her. She was mildly disappointed that her husband didn’t ask why she was napping instead of chattering like her usual self, five minutes after a cup of double-espresso.

Tarja could lie when it comes to the ones who were dear to her. She lied to Sharon.

***

After Hellfest, Tarja just couldn’t bear to be alone. Marcelo joined her in Japan before they flew to Poland together. Although her husband’s original plan was to stay longer in Tokyo, he altered the schedule for them to spend more alone-time. So now they were walking on an anonymous dirt road in an anonymous countryside near Kostrzyn nad Odrą. Woodstock wasn’t happening until another five days.

The scenery was supposed to bring her serenity. Taking a stroll with her lover was supposed to be a rejuvenation. She was supposed to be happy.

“It’s Sharon’s birthday tomorrow, no?”

Marcelo broke the silence out of the blue. Approaching mid-July, it was warm and pleasant out in the open, but the question brought a chill to Tarja’s rigid frame.

“Yeah I guess so.”

“Tari, what—”

“Don’t.” It was too harsh. She softened her tone, “Just don’t call me that right now. I am sorry.”

“It’s ok.”

He was more surprised than irritated. Marcelo treated her like a lady, a princess, then a queen all for a price. As long as Tarja was forever grateful to his deeds, they were strong as a unit. If he could be her knight and king, nothing could tear them apart.

“Do you want to have sex tonight?” Marcelo choked and stopped dead in his tracks. One step ahead, Tarja glanced back unhurriedly just in time to see the disbelief in her husband’s eyes, “What?”

“I thought—but you said…”

“I was in the mood.”

She shrugged. Marcelo’s gaze swept over his wife’s delicate features and curvaceous form, appreciative but dubious. Tarja was not behaving like herself lately whenever Sharon was mentioned in their conversations.

But hey, they weren’t having sex since forever.

“You know I can never say no to you.”

He said in a roguish swag. Tarja just raised a brow at his attempt, unimpressed. They kept on walking. When Marcelo tried to sneak a possessive hand onto her slender waist, she smacked him away.

“Well _that_ certainly put me in the mood, too.”

Marcelo groused. Unresponsive, Tarja looked sideways and pretended to be interested in the river. She felt like a fish swimming against the stream.

***

“No, you don’t get to touch me tonight.”

Marcelo protested, but Tarja covered his mouth forcefully then pinned his hands aside. His eyes were shiny and glossy, so was his mouth. Tarja forced back the bile, feeling aroused and detached. The blood in her veins turned into hot lead once she told her husband to undress. After she was also naked, she pushed Marcelo onto the bed. He was already hard. Tarja took his shaft in her hand and stared into his eyes. Marcelo pushed himself wantonly into her hand, writhing with impatience. He was burning her palm.

“This is what you want, huh? Watching your precious little girl turn into a slut?”

Tarja massaged his length in her hands while maintaining eye-contact. The Adam's apple moved visibly in her husband’s throat. He looked like a boy, not a man, and Tarja felt sad and powerful at the same time.

“Tarja, why are you—”

“Answer my question.”

She wetted her hand and started to pump in deliberate speed: fast and firm enough to be in control, but not quite there to make him come. He was fully erected.

“Yes.”

Lips stiffen with desire, his abdomen muscle twitched, a sign of how far gone he was. Tarja shifted impatiently and climbed upwards; her arousal was dripping down her thighs while she impaled herself onto Marcelo. He let out an unsteady groan, but Tarja only shut her eyes with an exhale. A rough hand came to fondle with her breast and she stopped it from its course.

“I said,” She snapped open her eyes and flashed Marcelo a warning stare, “Don’t—”

Tarja ground forward as she pronounced each word with fury, “— _fucking_ —” Her rhythmic movements created obscene noises of wet flesh colliding, “—touch me.”

Her husband’s jaw was slackened with need and he was too distracted for defiance. Tarja curled her lips upward. It was not a pleasant smile. She picked up her speed and started to ride her husband with determination.

“I am going to come…please Tari…”

_Tari?_

Yes?

_What’s wrong when you came to find me tonight? I thought you were worried about something…_

The feminine words echoed louder than the unholy sounds they were making. Tarja was leaking lewdly until she realized in horror, fully registering the memory, about who was responsible for that voice.

Sharon. Sharon’s unthreatening, musical tone. Her smooth hands and skin even softer. Her smile sweeter and warmer than melted marshmallows in hot chocolate. Her cocoa eyes and brown hair. The smell of her hair and her swanlike, tender neck…

Tarja came unexpectedly, wild and guilty as her inner walls contracted and squeezed, milking her husband dry.

They showered separately afterward.

When Tarja puked into the toilet the only thing she was grateful for was that, she wasn’t stupid enough to scream Sharon’s name when she was having sex with her husband.

***

July 12th, 2016, Netherlands

The band nearly gave her a heart attack.

After the Out & Loud Festival in Germany, Ruud told them the studio called, and claimed something about hacking, losing most of their private recordings and data overnight. Sharon freaked out but all she got were jumbled, irresponsible answers. She demanded to fly back home immediately at no expense. In a panic, Sharon failed to comprehend how suspiciously smooth their last-minute schedule went.

It was half-past midnight when they arrived in Amsterdam. The check-out was a slow, grueling process. Sharon could taste iron in her mouth; her lips were too dry and her anxious hands had wills of their own to keep on pealing the dead skin off. Leading a group of sluggish, beat-up boys, Sharon walked the fastest in the front.

Then it all happened too fast. Everyone arrived at the pick-up. Her parents, her sweet kids, the band’s close friends and family all came with one cake in their hands, all cheeky and smiley, chanting the stupid _hip, hip, hip, hoera_ in tunes that went all over the place. With rushes of happiness and relief, Sharon tried to hit her bandmates but ended up bawling on the floor since her legs turned into jelly. That night she fell asleep next to Robert, thinking that maybe things weren’t so bad between them.

She woke up to her pocket buzzing. She forgot to take the phone out after the surprise party; the tiredness had knocked Sharon out cold. It was nearly four in the afternoon and Robert was nowhere in sight. Groggily, Sharon started to scroll over the messages that jumped on the screen. Of all the happy birthdays Sharon received, only one stood out for its absence.

Sharon waited until the last minute of June 12 bled into June 13.

Tarja didn’t wish her a happy birthday.

***

Robert was trying. They were trying and what Sharon chose to contribute was an honest one. The truth.

And it ripped them apart like nothing had ever done before.

“I knew it. You are drifting away. You feel like a million miles away to me while you start to get thick as thieves with her.”

It was a colorless statement. Empty. But Sharon caught the bitterness and anger when Robert stared into her eyes; the effect slammed into her tenfold. For a second Sharon resented him for knowing how to deliver the most painful punishments.

“She is still a stranger to me and it goes both ways! I…We are not what you think. We are not that close. You are not a stranger to me, Robert.”

She implored softly, humble. Her husband started to undress; in the dim light, his skin looked ghastly pale in an ill, waxen hue. He had lost weight.

“Well, you two are certainly closer than I think.”

“And that makes me guilty? Because I made a friend and got close to her without your consent?”

“Sharon,” His voice was raw at the edge. She winced. Robert was now naked with fresh clothes and a towel in his hand. He looked back at her before he went into the bathroom. His gaze was heavy, “You and I both know Tarja isn’t just a friend to you.”

“I am sorry.”

Sharon whispered. They had been here before, and they knew it would take more than an apology.

“I know you are.”

Robert said too lightly and went into the shower. The message was loud and clear though: _you are always sorry, and you know it won’t fucking help._

“But don’t you want to hear me explain?”

 _Don’t you want to help me anymore?_ Sharon murmured to herself in the deafening silence. She buried her face in her palm, but the tears refused to form.

She gave a muffled scream instead.

***

August 6th, 2016, insomniac dream on the flight to Norrköping, Sweden

Days flew by in a chaotic order. Loud, organized passion lit by bright stage lights and artificial flames; countless rehearsals and fans that required Tarja’s full attention and affection; flights which she stayed awake and found herself at the darkest pit of consciousness.

Maybe that was why she felt like falling apart. She had given it all and got nothing in return. Every cheer, whistle, and clap sounded empty and then faded quickly. Every hug, congratulation, and air kiss felt forced. Every time Marcelo said I love you and she found herself unable to say it back, she felt dead inside.

August was supposed to be Tarja's favorite month, but now she dreaded it. Three more shows, then she had to meet _her_.

Tarja closed her eyes because Marcelo said she looked tired, a not-so-subtle suggestion that she was not young anymore, and needed to get some beauty sleep.

She thought about the first time she got an air kiss from Sharon. Tarja was a natural hugger, fond of physical interactions, but never accustomed to kissing strangers upon social occasions. It was funny because Sharon was the complete opposite.

She wielded the Dutch custom so well, that before Tarja could see anything coming the taller brunet already cut into their polite distance, friendly and reserved, then pressed three air kisses upon Tarja’s cheeks. It was pleasant and breezy, unlike the others who tended to scrape some highlighter there, smudge about the contour, or take a little foundation as souvenir. When the courtesy was all over, Sharon backed away swiftly, leaving a Finnish who looked as if she was slightly drunk. Sharon didn’t apologize; she fixed her gaze upon Tarja once more, face neutral and unreadable until Tarja broke the ice with her trademark laughter, high and free.

After that, they became friends almost too quickly. Tarja wondered, if angels had fallen on Earth, one of them must be Sharon. Her admiration for the older woman was immediate and transparent. Marcelo always joked about how excited Tarja got when she gushed about Sharon.

First of all, she seemed so adorably bossy, but she had to be since WT would fell apart if it weren’t for Sharon’s guidance. Tarja didn’t get women-crushes often; seeing how Sharon handled and arranged everything had always put Tarja in awe. The Dutch was one tough cookie.

Tarja had to admit, she liked Sharon because she was opaque. It had been a long time since Tarja met someone who was hard to comprehend. Tarja had dangerous tendencies to get attracted to sophisticated matters, but she never really learned. It felt good to fell into a trap when the net was coated with honey.

It was why Tarja preferred to stay in a distance with Sharon, so she could indulge the excessive fondness and joy flowing between them, no strings attached.

Tarja pondered constantly: if one day she saw who Sharon really was, would she be disappointed?

The question loomed over Tarja’s mind, but she doubted that. Tarja always had a soft spot for pretty things—Sharon was too exquisite to be bad.

Tarja also reckoned Sharon a professional who respected boundaries, because when she leaned in, the older woman would shift until their distance was clear once more. When she gave Sharon pats on the shoulder, lingering yet chaste touches on the lap, spontaneous hugs, the Dutch would go into a series of body languages that were seeming out-of-character—unable to hold eye-contact, the nervous twitch around the corner of her mouth, the blushing under the makeup, the stutter although her English was immaculate.

Tarja thought it was cute.

She didn’t feel it was a shame that Sharon never did the air-kissing again, until now.

***

In less than a week, Sharon had to get on stage with Tarja again. Sharon could not fuck that up; this collaboration would be the sugar on top of Within Temptation’s show. Creating perfect performances got harder these days, and Sharon wondered if the fans could see she was already a burnout.

She had nearly a week to settle herself in a calmer mindset, that was neither self-destructive nor murderous. Her band members were starting to treat her like a piece of delicate glass, no doubt Robert’s doing. Sharon hated it when people regarded her with sympathy while she had absolutely _no_ intention to share her worries with them. That was what her walls were built for; Sharon could be a great working partner and a job-driven machine, but not when her husband was constantly prying her open for a show.

Most important of all, there were burdens that you just had to carry alone; even those who were the closest could not understand.

The silver lining was that Sharon had been writing songs again; Robert and she were sleeping in the same bed but he still wouldn’t touch her.

So Sharon had to touch herself.

It was such an overrated cliché. There was nothing sexy about a woman masturbating. It was mechanical just to get the job done. It became more convenient since Sharon was naturally quiet; her husband was laying right next to her most of the time.

But one night it went differently. It was an additional glass of Pinot Noir before bed, getting a mumbled response from her husband that he didn’t want any (she never asked him to join), and remembering that Tarja’s favorite wine was not what she said to the public, but the one that she told Sharon and Sharon only.

Upon that thought, Sharon finished the drink in one go and got under the sheets, boneless. She snuck a leg out of the covers because the wine went straight to her head. It was too hot to even know why she was thinking about that confusing night after Hellfest, being tugged in after crying in Tarja arms. God it was awfully unprofessional of Sharon.

But she didn’t regret it. Why? There was a sick sense of satisfaction that just wouldn’t dissipate, and Sharon was clinging to the memories of Tarja for all of the good and selfish reasons.

Sharon thought about the photoshoot promoting _Paradise_. It started at around five in the morning. The crew was not complaining because they were accustomed to Sharon’s demands.

She didn’t say no to Robert insisting to come help. Their kids were fine with mommy and daddy going out of town (again), but technically, two of them could barely talk yet, and the oldest spoke gibberish lately because it was normal for a six-year-old to think that it was fun, right?

It was a one-hour drive to a corner in the countryside; Sharon was slightly apologetic since she was responsible for bringing all that pandemonium to such a peaceful haven.

Tarja brought the real commotion, though. She arrived at noon, sweet-bombing everyone with smiles and laughter, looking marvelous in the tightest schedule. Tarja had to leave the next day promoting another album, and so was WT.

Tarja was not a diva, a contradiction to popular belief. Everything felt surreal that day. Working with Tarja was too good to be true.

Sharon could understand why people thought Tarja had a bitchy attitude. Gathering her time with Tarja—however few those moments were—she found Tarja to be a very serious musician under her sunny facade. Tarja treated her work with utmost care. Sharon thought Tarja more of a perfectionist than herself, because the Finnish had the resilience to try failure after failure, even when the rest of the others were giving up. Tarja was also not afraid to show how proud she was about her achievements. It could be a dangerous combination to rouse misunderstandings; worse, jealousy.

Sharon was grateful and relieved that she wasn’t envying Tarja in any way negative. it was more like _worshipping_. The beauty and talent of the raven-haired goddesses were never meant for humans to imitate, let alone decipher.

Sharon placed a hand on her cheek to cool them down. She touched her own heated neck, and it was comforting. Her thoughts drifted back to Tarja; she was easy to understand although she was a complicated person. Sharon saw a part of herself in Tarja and maybe it was why at the end of the shoot, she felt extremely exhausted and so fucking blessed.

Tarja was also great to get along. There were people you had to like because you were working together, and Sharon found their instant connection with a “click”. It was alarming how disarming Tarja was during their collaboration.

The Finnish singer’s personality was not entirely flawless; Sharon was still getting used to her loudness, openness and constant sharing. She was at the edge of her nerves whenever Tarja was around. The Finnish woman required full focus because everything about her was acute.

But she was merciful and sensitive.

Before the final shoot, Sharon was about to snap at Tarja’s makeup artist when the younger woman suddenly struck a conversation with the nervous mess. Receiving a swift, subtle side-glance from the younger singer, Sharon held back the words and listened to the conversation. She learned that the makeup artist was much younger than she looked under the thick, gothic makeup, and it had always been a dream for her to work with renowned musicians. Something happened to the girl’s mother a couple of hours ago. That was why she couldn’t get the job done.

Sharon was ashamed and humbled but ended up liking Tarja more.

_Perhaps a little bit too much._

With a sigh, Sharon’s hand glided further down to her stomach, then lower still. It was still too warm so she kicked the covers off completely. When the cool air met her skin, it elicited a wave of goosebumps. Sharon snuck a hand to a particular spot of her underwear. It was not soaked as the mundane bodice rippers would advertise, but she had no expectations anyway.

Dizzy with a heavenly buzz, Sharon cleared her mind and granted her thoughts free reign, no conscience needed for moments of guilty pleasure. At first, she thought about masculine, calloused hands exploring her body, but the fantasy changed inevitably into a pair of fair, tender hands caressing her—tentative, unhurried hands. It was like the owner had all the time in the world to pamper Sharon. Something cold and pointy grazed her flesh. Sharon shuddered and decided she liked it—she liked how the rings felt against her skin. Then her breath got caught in her throat because the nails scraping along her inner thigh were surprisingly tantalizing. In her mind’s eye, those nails were long and painted in metallic black, elegant and mysterious. She realized it was a _woman’s_ hand.

Sharon gasped and tried to see who it was, but in her state of newfound arousal she could only capture glimpses of features: silky rivulets of long black hair, sparks of green glimmering in the entrancing orbs, smokey eyes burning with fires of passion, high cheekbones, burgundy-red lips…

An impish smile with amusement, a string of devilish musical chuckles, and Sharon knew who it was.

She was looking at Tarja’s gorgeous face.

She was instantly frozen but Tarja didn’t stop. The younger woman’s smile darkened before she pulled down Sharon panties and exposed her womanhood, determined but gentle. Sharon was powerless. The best she could do was trying not to make a sound.

She failed. When Tarja spread her open and had her mouth wrapped around Sharon’s wetness, it was too intense. The electrical pleasure shot from Sharon’s lower abdomen marked the escape for the moan she had been suppressing. Tarja was monitoring her every movement; when the action was found effective, she persisted with more suction and a steadier rhythm. Sharon whined and gyrated her hips forward. She was close.

When the building ache exploded into an orgasm, she shook with violence, the intensity igniting Sharon’s body like a miniature firework. Her mind was finally, pleasantly blank.

Until Robert cleared his throat.

Sharon snapped her eyes open when the after-sex-bliss was broken.

“You could’ve just asked, you know.”

“For what?”

Robert turned his head and gave her an incredulous look. Pity didn’t look good on her husband’s face; it made him hollow and condescending. Sharon hurriedly pulled the covers to hide herself.

“Never mind.”

Sharon realized Robert wasn’t feeling sorry for himself, but her. She watched in a fury of hurt as Robert rose listlessly from their bed, grabbing a fistful of pillow and sheets.

“You are sleeping in the guestroom? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You don’t want to sleep with me, don’t you? We both know who was on your mind when you…”

He grimaced, not even finishing the sentence; perhaps he considered it too vulgar. Sharon found herself alone amidst of embarrassment and shame after her husband left their bedroom.

It was hardly the first time.

***

August 13th, one hundred minutes before Leyendas del Rock Festival

_Tarja, I have to apologize. Please don’t be mad at me. I am really, really sorry I crossed the line. I just hope we can still be friends._

_(Audible inhalation and exhalation.)_ Tarja gulped and paused the audio file. It was absolutely the worst time to do this; she had to go on stage in less than two hours. And here she was: instead of rehearsing, she had her I-phone in a vice-like grip, listening to something sent from Sharon twenty minutes ago.

Hands trembling, Tarja pressed resume.

_This is something I made recently and to be honest, I don’t know what I am going to do with this if it really becomes a song. It’s far too…anti-Within Temptation._

Indistinctly, Tarja smiled along with the infectious self-mockery from Sharon.

_It came to me after I thought of you. So I guess you are partly responsible for this. Also the writing is really rushed because we are on tour, but so are you and I’m sorry if I am bothering you with this thingy. Sorry, I have started to ramble, haven’t I?_

Tarja grinned.

_So I am giving you this piece of thingy as a birthday present in advance…hope you don’t think it’s weird._

A guitar was being strummed; Sharon cleared her throat. Tarja realized that she was probably alone in the studio. She didn’t know Sharon could play the guitar.

The chords and the strumming patterns were simple, but once Sharon started to sing, Tarja was absolutely _transfixed_.

_This is karma, this is where our worlds collide_

_So for better, for worse_

_Let's bite that magic bullet_

_Leave it all behind_

_I need to feel the mercy_

_Of a star-crossed lovers' high_

_Bite that magic bullet_

_Enjoy this crazy ride_

_Only you can give me_

_A star-crossed lovers' high_

_We are dancing_

_Where the wildflowers grow_

_We're lost within a world that's so intense_

_We go crazy_

_Time and time again_

_Spinning on a storm that never ends_

_Let's bite that magic bullet_

_Leave it all behind_

_I need to feel the mercy_

_Of a star-crossed lovers' high_

_Bite that magic bullet_

_Enjoy this crazy ride_

_Only you can give me_

_A star-crossed lovers' high_

Tarja knew, distantly, there were crucial elements missing in Sharon’s segment of music, but she couldn’t care less once she heard the final seconds of the recording.

_Happy birthday, Tarja. I miss you._

***

August 14th, 2016, Germany, before M'era Luna Festival, where Sharon and Tarja shared the stage for the last time in the Hydra World Tour

Sharon didn’t know if she was more nervous to perform, or the fact Tarja was within her reach. Less than twenty feet away the Finnish singer was “warming up” in another room, according to Tarja’s loyal husband.

Tarja was never shy. Normally she would prep her vocals with the rest of the crew. Crossing that option off of Sharon’s mental list, it would be fair to say that the younger woman was probably avoiding Sharon.

Sharon didn’t blame her. She was also dodging the chances to interact with Marcelo. Robert was watching her closely. Sharon couldn’t breathe. The rest of her band members had also picked up the unusual buzz in the air; so when Sharon offered to take a quick break, everyone agreed with relief.

“Where are you going?”

“Saying hi to Tarja.”

As the Finnish woman’s name echoed in the air, the room quieted to whereas a needle dropping on the ground would be audible. But Sharon didn’t waver. Resolutely, she stared back at Robert and got ready to counter any kind of rejection.

“Sure. Just asking. Say hello to her for me.”

“I’m sure she will be happy to hear from you.”

Robert looked uneasy and confused, so were the rest of the guys. With a cool expression, Sharon strode away. They must have been looking forward to her acting unnatural and crumble down or something. It went airtight in the rehearsal, because what Robert coaxed out of her was the exact opposite of what he expected. Sharon made it look as if what Robert had been telling everyone was a big fat lie. What a bunch of nosy bastards.

But Sharon loved those nosy bastards no matter what. The cruel satisfaction didn’t taste as good. Sharon sighed as she stopped before the allegedly Tarja-was-warming-up-room.

It was terribly quiet. After wiping her clammy hands on her shirt, she knocked on the door precisely three times.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me. Sharon.”

A beat went by. How comical it was compared to that night after Hellfest; now it was her turn to knock on the other woman’s door.

“Come in.”

The voice sounded forced. When Sharon pushed open the wooden entrance and saw the owner of the voice, she realized she miscalculated how messed up the situation was.

Curled up on a chair, Tarja was not wearing any makeup. The afternoon sun was filtering through the windowpanes, casting stripes of saturated brilliance on her face. The shadows always resulted from the light.

Tarja was in a pair of jeans, no belt, and a black t-shirt; the fabric crumbled a little around her waist and Sharon could see how slim Tarja was. The raven-haired woman was hugging her knees with a mug in her hand, and was in no hurry to greet the unwanted guest. Tarja looked childlike and unthreatening. If Sharon didn’t know her better, she could guarantee whoever was doing what the Finnish was doing now would be one hell of a performer, an Oscar-worthy actress capable of cheating sympathy and attention. But Tarja wasn’t faking it because she chose not to look at Sharon. The Tarja she knew was bold and confrontational, but now her gaze was fixed on her mug, and her clutch was rigid and uncomfortable like her posture. Sharon hated herself to be the one causing disruption.

“Can we talk?”

“Well, you are here now. I suppose we should.”

Tarja put down the mug with reluctance and leaped off the chair like a wildcat. Staring at the younger woman’s figure, Sharon started to nibble her own bottom lip. Tarja dragged a chair across the room, still not looking at Sharon, and placed it at a polite distance from her original seat. Sharon’s heart sank. The air was charged with nervous energy—the negative kind.

“Please. Have a seat.”

“Would you please look at me in the eye?”

After they were settled, Sharon snapped with anxiety. Tarja connected her gaze with the Dutch with defiance.

_Happy now?_

The sentence was never uttered aloud, because she had forgotten how mesmerizing Sharon was; her gaze lingered all over Sharon’s features like her eyes were starving for her presence—the rosy glow on her unblemished cheeks, the dainty arch of her brows, the moistened pink of her full lips, the unfathomable dark browns burning with passion and life.

It had been too long since they last met. With the painful acceleration of her heart, Tarja realized she had been missing Sharon. She was always thinking about the lights reflecting from the Dutch’s silky locks of hair, the tiny lines that appear around her mouth and her eyes when she laughed, the smell the warmth and the _stir_ she created in Tarja’s heart. She missed the older woman too much, and she could not carry out any rejection as planned when Sharon was near.

“I’m sorry.”

The announcement slipped out of Tarja’s mouth, and became the final straw that broke all of her own resolve. Sharon blinked, bemused.

“For what?”

Tarja remained silent, giving Sharon the opportunity to look for the answers in her emerald greens. Sharon faltered as the gravity of their situation dawned in the loud stillness.

Fuck. It was never a problem when someone you loved couldn’t love you back. The real crisis began at realizing the two of you were always returning another’s feelings.

The Finnish shifted and looked away. Sharon took her chance and moved closer until their knees bumped together. Tarja flinched but didn’t back away; Sharon read it as a good sign.

“The song…I really appreciated it. Thank you.”

“You like it?”

The happiness in Sharon’s tone made the edge of Tarja’s mouth curve faintly upwards.

“Yeah I really do. It made my day. You are really talented.” Sharon wanted anything other than a mumbled, civil response. Tarja peered at the older woman and saw the goofy eagerness on her face. A tiny grin finally blossomed from Tarja’s face. She re-crossed her legs and reclined at the back of her seat, then said with a sigh, “Fine. Happy Birthday.”

“Come on. That’s SO lame.”

They chuckled softly and looked into one another’s eyes, slow and steady. An agreement was struck because they couldn’t stop _it_ , and the cruel reality was that _it_ would probably vanish as time trickles by.

But right now they reached the common ground, acknowledging that Sharon would be playing the warmest, brightest part of Tarja’s life, and vice versa.

“I want my birthday present.”

Tarja raised her brows in feigned disbelief.

“Well, well, I am not even sure if I’m still angry with you, and you are already asking for a gift?”

Sharon pouted and rested her palms on Tarja’s lap, leaned forward, then gave the best hundred-megawatt smile she could muster. Blush climbed onto Tarja’s high cheeks as she took in her own bottom lip between her teeth, breaking their eye-contact. Her hands now hung timidly beside her body like she was absolutely powerless in Sharon’s charm.

The Dutch, on the other hand, was in every shade of amazement. It was the first time she actually made the Finnish singer shy.

“How can I make it up to you?”

It was like riding a bike, flirting with another woman. With a lowered tone, Sharon stroked the other woman’s jeans-clad lap not-so-modestly. Tarja inhaled sharply and stared back at Sharon. If she wanted attention, she reached her purpose. Tarja was no longer holding back. Her eyes were swirling with golden specs, each one of them an idea of what she wanted to do with Sharon; her gaze became foggy and heavy with desire.

Sharon gulped.

“If you want a second present…”

She trailed off and got tongue-tied, because the raven-haired beauty’s gaze flickered downwards, blatantly, to her mouth. Sharon wetted her own lips accordingly and copied Tarja’s actions. Tarja’s cherry lips were slightly parted, and Sharon wondered if they would really taste as sweet.

“What were you saying?”

It came out hoarse and did no help at diluting the tension; Tarja’s voice was the finest wine that made Sharon drunk with desire. She thought about that day when she masturbated to the thoughts of Tarja, and her breath hitched in her throat. The ache started to pulse steadily between her legs.

“I think I have something in mind that you could give me as a gift.”

Sharon ventured thickly. Tarja moved in deliberate speed, placing her hands on Sharon’s seat as support just beside her thighs, and bent forward. Their faces were now merely inches apart, and the heat thrumming off their bodies had created a breathless, unfamiliar proximity. Sharon couldn’t think straight.

“What do you have in mind?”

Before Sharon knew what she was doing, she was already kissing the younger woman. She cupped Tarja’s face in her palms and pressed her lips against the other, calculated, forceful but not brusque so not their teeth wouldn’t knock and their noses wouldn’t bump. A weak gasp erupted from Tarja’s mouth and Sharon swallowed it down as she savored the salty, honeyed taste of the younger woman. Tarja reciprocated shortly and boy was she _good_. She moved after finding the perfect rhythm with Sharon like she was singing, like she was finding all the symphonic chords with her soft lips and tentative tongue.

They broke apart for air. Sharon observed Tarja’s dazed expression and her damp, swollen lips, and was not ashamed to say she wanted to go again already.

The feeling was not one-sided. Tarja tucked a strand of her own hair behind her ear self-consciously, feverish with flushed cheeks. Her heart was thundering and she was sure that Sharon could hear it, too.

“Hey,” Sharon called softly, jolting Tarja out of her dreamy state. She grinned, a smile that was a little unsure but reassuring to the older woman. Sharon reached out a shaky hand, “You’ve got lipstick…”

_From me._

Sharon smirked in satisfaction. Tarja shut her eyes, frozen once again upon Sharon’s touch. With the tip of her thumb, she cleaned the residual color from the corner of Tarja’s mouth, her petal-like upper lip, and somewhere close to her chin. The younger woman didn’t resist as her lashes flutter from the intimate gesture.

“Taape! I brought the tea that you wanted—”

Marcelo’s voice joining the crude opening of the door, shattered everything within the room.

“Sharon! I didn’t know that you are in here!”

The women already drew a healthy distance between each other, but the Dutch still jumped a little for the loud interruption.

“I was just dropping by—”

“She was just giving me—”

They spoke and paused at the same time, looking rather incredulously at each other, then announced in discorded harmony, “The mug.” “The present.”

Marcel scratched the back of his head as he surveyed his wife and his wife’s best friend. Something was eerie.

“O…k. Anything you want to add?”

“No.”

This time they spoke in unison. Sharon stood quickly, pointed to the door and flashed Marcelo a patronizing PR smile, “I am just going to…”

“Sure. See you later.”

“Bye Tarja.” Sharon locked her gaze once again with the raven-haired woman. Staring back, Tarja’s eyes were large with nervousness and amusement, not fully free from the effect of their previous activities. Upon seeing how distracted Tarja was, a warm current of fondness filled Sharon’s heart, “I’ll catch you in a bit.”

“See you in the rehearsal room.”

Tarja deadpanned. Her heart drummed in her ears when she saw the lipstick on Sharon was also smudged. But it was too late.

The Dutch had already walked out of the room.

“Wait!”

“What just happened?”

Marcelo asked while putting the tea on the table. Tarja glanced back at him with a wild, unfocused look in her eyes.

“We had a small argument.”

“Oooh, if only I was here to see the catfight.”

Tarja wrinkled her nose at her husband and rushed out of a room, ignoring the protests behind.

“Sharon! Wait!” The brunet turned around, ten steps away from Tarja. Tarja paced until she was in Sharon’s private space.

“Missed me already?”

Tarja tsked and smacked Sharon’s forearm in exasperation. She gazed upon Sharon’s face; Sharon’s eyes were gleaming with unabashed joy and fluid passion. It was blindingly beautiful, and for a wordless, frenzy second Tarja forgot why she was here.

“Your makeup was ruined!”

“And it was entirely _your_ fault.”

Now Tarja would trade a hundred shows in exchange to kiss the cheeky smile off of Sharon’s face, but she couldn’t. Their husbands were dangerously close by, and the spectators were close to discovering what they had, too. Too many others’ happiness was at stake, but for once Tarja wanted to be selfish. She wanted to be selfish with Sharon.

“We are playing with fire. This is wrong and we shouldn’t do this.”

“Why are you saying it like you are convincing yourself?”

“You know I am not, Sharon. I am serious.”

Lowering her gaze, a sigh escaped from Tarja’s solemn frame, the playfulness slipping away as much as Sharon wanted to bring it back. It was what she wanted to do from now on: making Tarja smile and laugh and happy, giving the younger woman what she had been denying herself, telling her that it was ok to give in to her secret cravings.

Music and chattering were coming from the end of the gray hallway, but none of that was registered in the two brunet’s ears. Their presence to one another meant everything.

“Don’t frown.” Puzzled, Tarja raised her head just in time to catch Sharon placing her finger between her eyebrows, “You’ll get wrinkles. You are getting older soon, no?”

The tension dissolved. Tarja chortled and stopped frowning, curbing the urge to break into fits of hysterical giggles. Sharon knew exactly how to turn the sour reality into bittersweet, buttery limbos.

“Still younger than you.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Unconvinced, Sharon placed her hands on her hips and observed the shorter woman. Jokes aside, Tarja was still fretful. Sharon exhaled as the sudden tiredness hit; the voices in her head which were sensible and sane and _right_ , were the undercurrents of thoughts floating around her mind.

What was good may not be right all the time.

But together, they sparked the most amazing moments in their lifetime, such as now. Noticing Sharon’s rueful silence, Tarja extended her hands for the other woman's until they connected—flesh to flesh, soul to soul.

Sharon repressed a cloudburst of emotions so she wouldn’t tear up. She was so glad that Tarja was such a sensitive person.

“Listen. I just want to put it out there before anything should happen.” Tarja took a deep breath and Sharon waited expectantly, holding the Finnish woman’s hand like she might never be able to do it again. Tarja gave her a gentle squeeze and carried on, “What we are doing is irresponsible, careless and selfish. It’s going to ruin many things if we aren’t careful.” Sharon gave a few rigid nods, her heart heavy but body turning as light as a feather. Tarja relented with a firmer grip of the older woman, like she knew Sharon was about to drift away, “We cannot control how we feel towards each other, and I hate to think about the ugly possibilities, like if we were drawn together because we are falling in love—” Tarja shuddered and darted her gaze away. Sharon searched the other woman’s eyes frantically, “—falling in love with the images we made for one another. Nothing is solid, and what we are risking was far too grave to be estimated.”

Void of strength, Tarja let go of Sharon’s hands and gathered her own into tight fists, dropping them straggly beside her body. She wanted to face the final blow with dignity as she waited, not patient enough, for the Dutch’s response.

“I know.” Sharon spoke after a moment of silence, “I understand.”

_We are not alone._

It generated both relief and a sharp, poignant tug at Tarja heart to hear that from the older woman. Throat tightening, Tarja felt a familiar prickle in her eyes. Seconds after that her world was in a magnificent blur, where Sharon’s shapely frame had liquefied alongside the background. Tarja was almost certain, that she was also melting herself, but that would be exactly what she wanted: she wanted to become an item with Sharon. She wanted a piece of herself to live in Sharon forever so she wouldn’t have to take things away, nor would she have to give and _give_ until she collapses.

“I think I…” Sharon’s voice was no louder than a whisper. She cleared her throat and muttered _never mind_ before enveloping Tarja’s smaller body in her arms. Docile and eager for comfort, the Finnish woman circled her arms around Sharon’s waist, then buried her head in the chocolate sea of the taller woman’s hair.

 _Sandalwood, freesia, sage and sweet vanilla._ Tarja’s memory finally came in full circle. She thought about they met as the years elapsed, the Heineken night and how it had led them here, two months later. It was not the craziest ride but certainly the most breathtaking one.

“You think you are what? What were you saying?”

Neither of them wanted to let each other go. Sharon exhaled shakily.

_Fuck it._

“I’m in love with you.”

Tarja’s chest heaved in an unperturbed rose-and-fells; the statement was a stone sinking in the abyss of her deep, bottomless water of thoughts. Their bodies molded, seamless, as if they were always meant to be this way, ebbing and flowing in secrecy and entanglement. Sharon relaxed and ran her fingers through Tarja’s sleek, pitch-black hair, content. She marveled at how they ended up with one another. When they clashed into one another’s orbit, the bursts of energy simply could not be contained. The emotions they poured out for art overflowed, creating a vortex of chaos that they never expected. But their feelings were the elements that conquered all. They were weaker than they knew, but stronger than they could ever imagine.

“Silly.”

Tarja smiled, the vibration of her body sending waves of reverberation up Sharon’s spine, the soothing effect making her flush and ripe with lightheadedness. They were ripened and ready.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am working on a fluff piece because finishing this one is absolutely exhausting.  
> Stay tuned! Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos make my day~


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